Inside my room, I occasionally hear signs of life. A chair scraping across the floor. A television screen turning on. The sudden opening of a window, followed by the sound of someone spitting into the air below. These are the only echoes that remind me that someone else is nearby. But they do not invite connection. They simply remind me that others exist, anonymously. We are neighbors, but we are not companions. We share walls, but not stories. We breathe the same air, but not the same life.
Back home in Uganda, it is so different. In Uganda, neighbors are woven into the fabric of one’s daily life. We know who lives next door and who lives across the road. We know their names, their families, their tribes, their hometowns. We know what they do for work, how many children they have, the ages of the children, and even the schools they attend. We know if someone is sick or bereaved or celebrating. We do not need to ask for updates—they reach us naturally, through greetings, conversations, laughter, and shared presence. Life is communal, and community is the air we breathe. It is not perfect. Sometimes it can feel intrusive, even exhausting. But there is a richness in knowing and being known. There is comfort in proximity that is not only physical but emotional.
The contrast between these two worlds presses on my spirit. How is it that people can live so close and yet remain strangers? How can we be surrounded by others and yet feel so alone? What does it mean, in such a context, to love one’s neighbor?
When Jesus was asked to summarize the greatest commandment, He gave two: to love the Lord your God with all your heart, and to love your neighbor as yourself (Mark 12:30–31). These two commands are deeply intertwined. Love for God is not complete without love for neighbor. They grow together, like two branches from the same tree. But in a society where neighbors are hidden behind locked doors and drawn curtains, how can we live out this commandment? How do you love someone you never see?
This question haunts me as I walk up and down the stairs, as I listen to muffled footsteps above my ceiling, as I hear the distant hum of life behind closed doors. My mind returns to the story of the Good Samaritan. A man is left beaten by the side of the road. A priest passes by. A Levite passes by. But it is the Samaritan—a stranger from an unfamiliar community—who stops, helps, and becomes a true neighbor. Jesus ends the parable with a challenge: “Go and do likewise” (Luke 10:37).
In that story, proximity alone does not make someone a neighbor. The priest and the Levite are physically close to the injured man, yet emotionally distant. It is the Samaritan, though culturally and socially distant, who draws near in compassion. Being a neighbor, then, is not about geography—it is about intentionality. It is about seeing. About stopping. About caring. About choosing to engage when it would be easier to walk past.
In Korea, it is easy to walk past—not on the street, but in spirit. The culture is efficient, disciplined, private. People are polite but reserved. Everyone seems busy, consumed with their own goals and obligations. Community is not absent, but it is selective, intentional, often confined to long-standing relationships formed in school or work. Strangers, even those living under the same roof, remain strangers. In such a culture, the idea of spontaneously knowing your neighbor’s life story is almost unthinkable.
Yet I wonder if the gospel invites us to gently resist this distance. Not to judge it, but to stretch against it. To find small ways to break the silence. To knock on a door, to offer a greeting that lingers, to ask a name, to remember it. To bake something and share it. To notice when someone hasn’t been seen for a while. To extend an invitation without the guarantee of acceptance. These small acts may seem trivial, but they carry kingdom weight. They are mustard seeds—tiny, yet powerful.
There are risks, of course. You might be ignored. Misunderstood. Rejected. But Jesus, too, was often misunderstood. And still, He kept reaching out. He dined with tax collectors, touched lepers, spoke with women, welcomed children, noticed the overlooked. He did not wait for perfect openness—He created space for it. In a world that draws sharp boundaries, He made soft landings.
I think of Zacchaeus, hiding in a tree just to catch a glimpse of Jesus. Jesus stops, looks up, and says, “Zacchaeus, come down immediately. I must stay at your house today” (Luke 19:5). What if Jesus had simply walked on? What if He had not looked up? That single moment of recognition changed Zacchaeus’s life. What if, in our apartment buildings and crowded cities, there are people hiding in trees, hoping to be seen? What if a neighbor is silently longing for connection but unsure how to ask? What if we are the ones called to stop, look up, and say, “I see you”?
In Uganda, perhaps we take this seeing for granted. The openness of our communities can feel natural, even effortless. We do not need to schedule friendship—it flows through shared routines, shared meals, shared space. Yet even in Uganda, the gospel pushes us deeper. Knowing your neighbor’s name is good, but loving them in spirit and truth is greater. It is easy to know someone and still not care. It is easy to have information without transformation. The call of Christ is not simply to gather data about our neighbors, but to love them with genuine compassion.
Whether in Uganda or Korea, this love takes courage. It takes a willingness to slow down. To pay attention. To let go of our self-absorption. To see interruptions as invitations. To risk being inconvenienced. To allow space in our hearts for people who are different, difficult, or distant.
And yet, this is the very heart of God. A God who did not remain far off, but came near. Who dwelled among us, not behind a veil of silence, but in the vulnerability of flesh. Who did not simply observe us from heaven, but became our neighbor in the most literal sense. Jesus pitched His tent in the neighborhood, as Eugene Peterson beautifully translates John 1:14: “The Word became flesh and moved into the neighborhood.” God entered the apartment building of humanity. He heard our footsteps. He knocked on our doors. He came to sit at our tables, to hear our stories, to bear our burdens.
This is the God we follow. And if we are to walk in His footsteps, then we too must become neighbors in the fullest sense. Not just residents. Not just occupants. But bearers of presence, carriers of love. Even in silence, we can choose connection. Even in the absence of community, we can create it.
Maybe I will not get to know all my neighbors in this apartment. Maybe some will never return my greetings. Maybe the doors will stay closed. But that does not stop me from trying. From praying. From knocking again. From leaving a note. From living with an open spirit.
The call to love our neighbors is not contingent on their response. It is a reflection of who we are in Christ. A city on a hill. A light in the hallway. A warm smile in the cold silence of modern life.
In this place where I do not know my neighbors, I am learning again the cost and beauty of intentional love. I am learning that the gospel does not depend on familiarity—it thrives in the spaces between strangers. It breaks walls. It opens hearts. It whispers through the thin walls of our lives: “You are not alone. You are seen. You are loved.”
And maybe, just maybe, in some quiet moment, a neighbor will hear my footsteps, my laughter, my welcome, and know that there is more to this life than isolation. That God is near. That someone cares. That behind the silent doors of this apartment, there lives a child of God—willing to love, willing to wait, willing to be a neighbor.
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